He had the type of name that screamed, “I was in a fraternity!” Unsurprisingly to everyone, he really was. For the purpose of anonymity, we’ll call him Sebastian. I stumbled across Sebastian’s profile on Tinder almost immediately after deciding to rejoin. I didn’t normally dig white guys but something about the sandwich shoved in his mouth on his profile pic really spoke to me. His profile read, “Live. Laugh. Love. Harvest Organs.” It made me wet just reading it. I wouldn’t say we were soulmates but I would say we were the perfect sex match up. Oh, joyous day!
Our banter was sharp, sarcastic and largely around food, which is just how I like it. After the appropriate amount of time I slid him my number and suggested we move away from the app. Into the realm of awkward small talk via text and hopefully, a date to bone. It was approximately 3 hours into him having my number when he invited me over. I didn’t go. Not that night, at least. When the same invite arose the following Monday though, I jumped right on it.
He was making stir fry and drinking wine. It didn’t take much observation to see that he was far better at “adulting” than myself. His place consisted of 4 rooms, all attached by big sliding doors for the exception of the one furthest in the back. A standard style for the historical homes that still stood in the Church Hill area. The first two rooms were fully decorated living rooms. Both held a couch and rug, a coffee table, lamps and art. One had a TV, the other books.
To the right of the second room was a kitchen, long and thin in shape but big enough to fit 15 people in. The third room held his bed covered with a white quilted blanket. The type you’d find at Pottery Barn, this same description could be said for the decorations that matched. The last room was his closet, pristinely organized with color coded clothing, shoes lined up perfectly and jewelry box than appeared to hold 20 expensive watches. We were both 27 and both Leo’s, 10 days apart to be exact. And for a brief moment, I questioned what it truly meant to be successful.
We migrated to his back porch where we drank beer and discussed life. Pretending to have literally anything at all in common with one another. It’s safe to say we weren’t massively successful and eventually the conversation fizzled. Let’s be real, sarcastic small talk can only go on for so long. He led me back inside, stealing the beer from my hand in the process. We laid on his couch, the segway to every fuck scene in every Rom-Com ever made. 5 minutes later, he grabbed my face and kissed me.
I hadn’t really been having sex, especially not of the casual variety, since dating my ex earlier in the year. I had recently become nervous and anxious around new men. Annoyed by any intent or actions that I could interpret to be a sexualization of me. But when he kissed me, I knew I didn’t give a shit. Maybe it was his cool and calm approach, showing interest but not thirst. Or maybe it was the fact that he seemed genuinely interested in interacting with me prior to. Despite our differences in essentially everything.
Smoothly, I shifted my body to straddle him as we kissed. His hands working around the waist of my pants then up my sides until they reached my breasts. He slid my shirt off, then my bra as I worked his dick out of his pants. It was perfect. The length, width and weight of it was basically the dream dildo, only it was attached to this man's body. I dropped to my knees and he leaned back on the couch. I couldn’t help but be excited, I like giving head and this was the type of dick I liked to do it to. (Not too big to hurt my jaw but big enough to be a challenge)
I worked on it for maybe 5 minutes when he slowly stood up and grabbed my arm to imply he’d like me to follow suite. Without hesitation, I did. He led me to his bedroom where he slid off my pants and pulled me on top of him. His dick lightly touching my pussy as he leaned over to his nightstand to grab a condom. If his penis was a boxer, it’d be considered heavy weight. When he slid it in, it reminded me how long it’d been. We fucked for a quite some time and I came a bunch. Which might I say, is an incredible blessing for a first fuck. After we were worn out, he got up to throw his condom out (or so I assumed) and we finished up.
When I left, he said, “well, now you’ve got a story.” To which I scoffed and responded, “sure, if anyone wanted to read about plain old sex.” (I say “plain old” as if he hadn’t spit in my mouth during it *shrug*) The next morning he sent a text that read, “good game, b.” I agreed by replying, “I’d rate it: likely to do again.” I don’t think he appreciated my sarcasm or the fact that I was brushing over his quality dick as if it were average. He never responded. Oh well.
Jump to Wednesday, two days after we fucked. I get home from work and after drinking my millionth cup of coffee, I’ve got to pee. I dance into the bathroom, my legs squeezed together as I plop down on the toilet. I go to wipe but something catches my eye. Ya know? Down there. I lean forward, giving myself the best possible view of my vag and without a doubt, I see something coming out of it. An odd thing to witness if you’re not on your period. Or aware there’s anything in you.
I reach down to grab it and as I pull, I immediately recognize the inanimate object. It’s a condom. FROM. MONDAY. You know, the one I thought he had gotten up to throw away?! Mortified, I disregard it and flush away the proof. Only to call one of my best friends moments later to tell her the story.
I thought about texting him something along the lines, “did ya leave something in me by chance?” But I didn’t. One thing that did trip me up though was his comment. The one about having a story.
It hasn’t been confirmed, but I think this was the story he was referencing. Not the sex, but the lost condom in my pussy. If only his last words had been:
“The stories been inside you all along.”